


New Year

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [27]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-27
Updated: 2004-12-27
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	New Year

Magellan's twisty, rock-strewn, surf-white Straits were never straightforward (Jack Sparrow smirked at his own word-play: but eighteen hours at the helm, he acknowledged, might excuse the basest wit, and make it seem more sparklingly erudite than it was; he decided not to share his amusement with those few wretched sailors who still adorned the deck), and the last few days had been gruelling and occasionally rather grim; but ahead of him, in the silver-gilt West (the sun never quite set, this close to the solstice) the horizon opened up, unfolding a vast ocean speckled -- he could see the map quite clear in his mind's eye, clearer than the scarred back of his hand, clearer by far than the compass in its binnacle, which he peered at through wind-sore eyes -- with minuscule islands, too small to have shapes, islands where the women (oh, the women) were warm and sweet and welcoming and brought you _fruit_ , afterwards, and oddly-spiced drinks; islands where the men were happy to trade those pretty yellow nuggets of metal (Jack licked his teeth, and grimaced at the sour taste) for a length of painted silk, or a scrap of mirror, or a picaresque novel ("strong magic, mate") that'd failed to entrance its previous owner; islands where there were white beaches on which to lie and listen to the gentle waves whose ancestors had battered his brave ship so cruelly, islands with hot springs in which to lounge -- alone or with company -- and soak away the aches of the voyage, islands where a man might fall asleep safely in the warm night air, scented with green growing things, and, waking, reach out to pluck his breakfast (and breakfast, of course, for any _company_ he might be entertaining) without moving from his hammock; and Jack's thoughts, languidly cycling down to dreams of sleep, strayed inevitably and enjoyably to Jack Shaftoe, snoring (no doubt) at this very moment in their shared bed -- the cot, after all, having proved unequal to the demands made upon it by their more ... _strenuous_ ... activities (the thought of which, exhausted as he was, sent a shimmery frisson through Jack's whole body, from chilled white fingers to hypothetical toes, via a great many more int'resting organs) -- and, and, yes, Jack Shaftoe, lying warm and asleep and dreaming (possibly of Jack himself) in their bed, trusting Jack's sure hand on the helm to bring them all, ship and sailors and neatly-stowed holds, round the treacherous Horn and free into the Pacific, waiting for Jack to stumble below, the danger passed, and ... Jack shook his head, blinking (it was an heroical effort to force his eyes, once closed, open again) and looked to left -- low, barren, snowy land, though this was _summer_ , or what passed for it in such low latitudes -- and to right -- black cliffs streaked with snow and guano, falling away north to the long straight coast of Chile -- and brought to mind, once more, the charts he'd seen: and, satisfied, he raised his salt-scoured voice and cried, "Mr Gibbs! You may take the helm, Mr Gibbs: keep 'er on this same course, aye?": "Aye," said Gibbs, brushing ice from his whiskers and looking doubtfully at his captain, swaying there like a Vagabond wrapped in every scrap of clothing he possessed; but he set his hands on the helm, and listened as Jack Sparrow muttered a few common-sense cautions and precautions: then Jack, his duty -- a duty he'd never entrust to another in such perilous Straits -- done for now, stumbled and slid down the steps, along the icy deck and down to the cabin that he shared with Jack Shaftoe: and all the time he went, one hand for the ship and one for himself, he was wondering what had changed now, what had made this journey different from the rest, what metamorphosis had been worked upon the _Black Pearl_ and her fearsome pirate captain to make this passage through the Straits seem like a phantastickal voyage from one world to another; and then, opening the cabin door (quietly, so's not to wake Shaftoe: at least, thought Jack with a malefic smile, not to wake him _yet_ ) and closing it behind him to keep out the icy air, he stood and simply looked at Jack Shaftoe, whose warm breath, issuing from his chapped red mouth (Jack longed to kiss it better), stirred the sandy beard that he'd grown, as had all the crew, for what little additional warmth it lent; Jack Shaftoe, eyes now closed but blue enough, Jack knew, to remind him of summer skies and calm seas even here, at the bottom of the world, where the sky was grey, or white, and the sea was the colour of steel, and never a green thing grew for lack of any sun; Jack Shaftoe, who somehow had spun Jack Sparrow all around as in some carefree children's game, so that he was no longer running _away_ , running _from_ , but running _to_ : and running _to_ a fine and fortunate future in finer company than he'd ever met, running before a friendly wind to a whole new hemisphere, packed tight with new things to show Shaftoe, new beds in which to wake with Shaftoe, new secret places where he could fuck Shaftoe (Jack suddenly found himself more awake than he'd been through all those hours on deck), new ... all new, and all _theirs_ : which was not, Jack thought with a grin as he peeled off his spray-soaked, ice-stiffened clothes, to say that Shaftoe should always have things his own way; and after all, 'twas sweet indeed to make up; and so Jack, mauve with cold and frozen to the bone (though some parts of him were beginning to thaw with remarkable alacrity), slipped as gently as he could into the, aaaah, decadently warm bed beside his beloved, and _aaargh, fuck off, Jack, you're fuckin' freezin', you bastard, god, can't you get yourself warmed up first instead of turning the bed into a bloody ice-house, get **out** , an' don't come back 'til --_ and Jack, fixing his mouth firmly on Shaftoe's furnace-hot one, kissed him (frowsty, sugary, salty Shaftoe) to keep him quiet, and felt every place where Shaftoe's skin touched his as though he were being scorched before a blazing bonfire, as though his own skin would blacken and peel away; but in a while the discomfort lessened, and Jack Shaftoe's arms went gingerly around Jack, to the accompaniment of some moans which Jack chose to take as appreciative, though they were more likely remarks, happily wordless, 'pon the temperature of his skin; and Jack Shaftoe, tilting his head back from the kiss, said softly, "So, Jack, is it next year yet?": and Jack, remembering that it had been the last day of December when he took the helm, reached for his pocket-watch, hanging from a nail next to the bed; tapped it against the bulkhead to get the hands moving; watched as the minute-hand twitched, and began to move counterclockwise; and, letting the watch fall, shrugged and smiled, there in Jack Shaftoe's summery embrace, and said, "Happy New Year, love."


End file.
